Saint Michael
by SilverCaladan
Summary: Oneshot. He is their dragonslayer, their caretaker, their glue. Be careful what you tell him, for he doesn't need an impersonal gun to carry out his revenge...


_A/N: One-shot. Figure out who the narrator is yourself. Beware, quite creepy and definitely not your normal, eight hundred word crossover. Rated for a reason, so suck up all of those complaints. Run away if you are bothered by revenge, even thoughts of it._

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**RoilinghateburningfireslicecutburninHELLrevulsionnauseatingfuckingbitch!**

It was a night like any other night: stars shining down in all their glory, city lights twinkling in the distance like stationary fireflies, fresh air scented—no hint of any recycling at all—with the wild, and underneath all of it, the pure, undiluted joy at being alive. Delight in every breath, pleasure in every heartbeat, bliss in every movement, and thrill in the knowledge that he finally had a place—a family!

**Carveuptheirstomachsmakethempaycutoffafingerheresliceoffatoethere…**

So none of them were related by blood; he'd realized early on in his lonely life that blood meant nothing, a lesson that had only been reinforced by other's experiences. If anything, blood relation just opened you up for more hurt. After all, you couldn't choose who gave birth to you. But family—true, loving, amazing **_family_**—he could and did choose. Okay, so his choices were a bit haphazard as such, but who the fuck cared, right? It was his life, his rules, _his_ family.

**FuckingcuntdoesnotevencarethatherbloodissufferingwellIwillmakehercareIWILL…**

His first family was dead and gone now, most of them. Those that weren't, he'd moved past. Like some families fractured and split when the glue that held them together disappeared, so had his first home. Disease truly was a terrible smear on the joyful existence of living. First Solo had succumbed to Mistress Disease and her siren call so painfully, dying because no one cared to help the poor, pathetic little bundle of worthlessness in the alley. Now… now Minako had fallen within that cruel Mistress' grasp.

**SopathetichowIwillmakethembegformercyIwillbreakthemintomicroscopicpieces…**

He'd been sitting on the steps leading up to his house, basking in the glow of living and watching others as they scurried about in the darkened streets. So amazing, how people on both the colonies and here on Earth cared not a whit about anything but themselves. He knew he looked menacing—how could one go through years of war and hatred and _not_ have an aura that created fear—but they barely spared him a passing glance. It was all, dash this way, dart thata way, feed the Queen! Propagate the species! Kill the intruder! Mindless ants, the lot of them, scuttling about in their wretched little lives, not even aware that others actually cared enough to sacrifice their worthlessness for another's. So sheltered. So inane. So…

**BurningpassionflamingIwonderhownicelytheywillscreamwhenIburnouttheireyes…**

Then she'd come into his view, effectively silencing that traitorous string of thought. At first, he'd raised his voice in enthusiastic greeting, but when she only waved timidly in response, he knew something was horribly wrong. What could hush her so, what could _possibly_ silence this most gregarious of his family… and a chill ran down his back. A chill he hadn't felt since the last time Heero had gone off on a stupidly suicidal mission simply because.

**Coldsteelhissingoutofthesheatheandslammingintotheirbodiesbloodgushingforth…**

When he'd rushed out to her, and shepherded her, nervously, into his house, she'd reacted gratefully. It seemed he had become the caretaker of his little family; patching up their hurts and aches, listening when those near them caused suffering, and carrying out silent revenge. He was their Saint Michael, their champion, their dragonslayer, the glue that kept his widespread family together. She'd come to him in her time of need, knowing, and trusting—God, it was such a heady feeling to be trusted so much with a person's heart—that he could help. Or, fuck, even just be there to hold her while she cried.

**Thoseidiotsdonotknowwhattheyhavegotlookathowtheyhavetreatedherpurity…**

Even while hacking up blood she tried to insist that she was fine, that she'd just come over because her parents were ragging on her for not doing anything about her cough. That blood, glistening wetly on her hands… reminded him so much of Solo, and those last few days. All those leftover feelings, the pain that the memory brought him, they combined to rouse something that Duo had so hoped he'd buried for good. But the God of Death, the Angel of Mercy, Saint Michael the fucking Archangel… he protected his own.

**RipyourfuckingheartsoutandFEEDthemtoyouwewillseehowyoulikethetaste…**

Minako was his sister… she was his, as surely as Wufei, Quatre, Trowa, and Heero would give up their lives for his any day of the week. Any abuse directed towards her would meet with his wrath… and this sickness? Just the icing on the cake. Bruises and cuts she couldn't, or wouldn't, explain, serious emotional issues… all spoke volumes about her home life. Her parents—those fucking things that didn't even deserve to be called animals—were by turns abusing and neglecting her.

**TheRipperhasnothingonmefreaksdonotevenbotherlockingyourdoorsIamcoming…**

That precious, life-giving blood, shimmering on her dull, pale, sickly fingers.

**Slipsomeacidintotheirdrinkswatchitdissolvetheirtonguesandtheirthroats…**

Parents who cared so little that she had to go to him for help.

**Nailthemtothetablewithwhateverisonhandthentheywilldiesoslowlysonicely…**

They'd face the music, or die. Most likely both.

**Usewatertodissolvetheirforeheadsbutfirstcarvetheirsinsintotheirsoulsandbodies…**

He'd enjoy it.

**Hookthemuptotheeletricaloutletsfrytheirnervescooktheirbrainsintoashes…**

No one touched his family.

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End file.
